My thoughts soar not as they ought to soar, <br />Higher and higher on soul-lent wings; <br />But ever and often and more and more <br />They are dragged down earthward by little things, <br />By little troubles and little needs, <br />As a lark might be tangled among the weeds. <br /> <br />My purpose is not what it ought to be, <br />Steady and fixed, like a star on high, <br />But more like a fisherman's light at sea; <br />Hither and thither it seems to fly-- <br />Sometimes feeble, and sometimes bright, <br />Then suddenly lost in the gloom of night. <br /> <br />My life is far from my dream of life-- <br />Calmly contented, serenely glad; <br />But, vexed and worried by daily strife, <br />It is always troubled and ofttimes sad-- <br />And the heights I had thought I should reach one day <br />Grow dimmer and dimmer, and farther away. <br /> <br />My heart never finds the longed-for rest; <br />Its worldly striving, its greed for gold, <br />Chilled and frightened the calm-eyed guest <br />Who sometimes sought me in days of old; <br />And ever fleeing away from me <br />Is the higher self that I long to be.<br /><br />Ella Wheeler Wilcox<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/fleeing-away/
